All of the boys and the girls

(I started something I couldn't finish - well, not for almost a week. It's the picture-adding that's been particularly time-consuming. Here's my spiel pretty much verbatim, though.)

I'm writing this from the First Class compartment of a Virgin train, speeding back to Euston from Liverpool. I've always had a bit of a weakness for the Weekend First option whereby one can upgrade a Standard ticket and acquire, for the princely sum of 15, additional legroom, attractively Tripodsesque table lighting and unlimited tea, coffee and biscuits. I particularly associate the Weekend First option with Sundays, as during the year TSB and I were apart (2001-02, I think) one of us commuted every weekend - and that 15 upgrade was a real comforter during the depressing Sunday journey away from one's partner and back toward the working week.

I'm sipping my second half-bottle of Hardy's Nottage Hill Chardonnay 2007 and listening to Uptown Top Ranking, part of TSB's gym playlist on a borrowed ipod, the better to drown out a large woman with a larger voice, which is cutting through the privileged calm of Carriage J. Why is it that some people's voices seem to carry, particularly? It's not always about volume. American accents carry but our fellow passenger isn't American. TSB reckons it's about bass notes but I reckon it's about hardness/softness: I've experienced shrill or cut-glass accents that are equally hard to block out.

But! Blocked out she is, and I am enjoying a pleasingly mellow return trip to London Euston after the phantasmogoria that was this weekend's Duckie Grand Vogue Ball side-project, Liverpool Is Burning. A half-hour's scrubbing has (mostly) removed the Rimmel Gold polish from my nails but I'm very aware that I still have glitter in my beard...

But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Let's go through it all in order. Firstoff, we arrived in Liverpool early afternoon on Saturday, having got up for what felt like an incredibly early Saturday 09.17 King's Cross train. Nice countryside but I'm not used to Saturday before midday and slept through about a third of it. Another intrusive voice on the way there but Liverpool-accented and thus a taster of things to come.

I'm a bit funny with accents. When I first came to London, it took me a while to get over the novelty of hearing accents I'd sort of considered fictional: for a few weeks at least, I felt like I was living in an episode of Eastenders. Same thing this weekend, except Brookside. Or Brooochhsayyyde.

Another stereotype was confirmed for me when the Adelphi Hotel - our accommodation and venue for Liverpool Is Burning - seemed full of people in cheap nylon shellsuits. Harry Enfield's moustachioed Scousers leapt to mind ("caaalm down") but it transpired that these were actually Russian (and/or East European) folk. At one point, a trio of giggly nylon-suited chaps tried, very ineptly, to take my and TSB's photos in the hotel lift, as we headed back to our rooms at a little after 1am. "If you want, we're happy to pose," I offered, slightly bemused at the fact that they were taking our photos when there'd been a wealth of much weirder and more wonderful creatures to goggle at, just a room or two away from Reception.

So... yes, we arrived at the Adelphi (wasn't it in some sort of hotel-based reality series a few years ago - The Hotel or something?), dumped our things in the room (comfortable bed but generally unimpressive for the price - no wi-fi, tacky marble-effect linoleum on the bathroom walls, chewing gum on the ceiling and a general sense of stickiness) and decided to explore Liverpool a little. Bumped into Ms Lame in Reception; she was in search of nail polish.

I liked Liverpool, what I saw of it. I seem instinctively to like or dislike cities and it had a good buzz, although it seemed peculiarly Caucasian (after London, almost everywhere seems jarringly white). We wandered down to the Albert Docks and ate at a rather impressively converted building called The Old Pumphouse (or something similarly faintly innuendo-suggestive). I'd got it into my head that I needed a black silk hanky to complete my outfit (it's all about the details, sweetie) and we couldn't find a pocket square anywhere - but eventually found a shinyish cotton handkerchief in Next.

Back at the Adelphi, things were hotting up. The public areas were much sexier than our bedroom, and we wandered through the grand atrium to the ballroom behind. Duckie's Simon was busy setting up a catwalk and lighting rig (the lighting was one of the best things about the show) but recognised us and took a moment to thank us for coming. Sweetie. He looked very cute later, in top-to-toe white with a Movember 'tache:



Meant to snooze - needed to snooze, really - but too excited about preparations and decided to run a bath and paint my nails. First time I've ever done it, but I think I did an okay job - it's not that different from painting window frames. The hair mascara (Copper and Gold) I'd bought to make my beard glittery was less successful: too subtle by half; I wanted something that'd make my face furniture shine like burnished bullion and it just looked like blonde highlights, not that metallic at all.

(Some odd noises outside our room while we were getting ready: sounded like someone in the corridor making grunting sounds while doing martial arts, or perhaps doing a David Brent style hip hop-inspired dance. Or maybe vogueing. Disconcerting.)

We'd spent aaages planning our outfits for Liverpool Is Burning. TSB had bought a rather lovely gold cocktail dress from Marks & Spencer and had been carb-bashing to fit it (in the event, he popped all three buttons over the the course of the evening). He'd rediscovered a dark bobbed wig we bought for Hallowe'en two years ago (when he was Clarice Starling and I Hannibal Lecter) and I'd bought him a black velvet pillbox hat with veil. His niece had got into the spirit, gifting him some wonderful black opera gloves and he'd decided on a sort of Jackie O vibe, buying a clutch bag, shades and jewellery to match. Make-up being something of an undiscovered country for both of us, he'd only bought lipstick (which became wilder and more Divine David as the night progressed).

My outfit was simpler, as it was defined by TSB's: I'd dressed as a sort of pimptastic companion, in coordinating black and gold. And, er, beige - lacking a white suit and hat, I had to make do with a cream suit and fawn-coloured Borsalino fedora, with my two-tone shoes and a sequined black shirt. Actually, the suit made me look vaguely '70s-seedy (especially with aviator shades), which was good. I pretended that's what I'd meant all along. TSB reckoned I looked like August Darnell (Kid Creole to me and you).

Gussied up to the nines, we moseyed down to Reception and the ballroom itself. It took a while for the place itself to open so we hung about, downed a couple of G&Ts and had our photos taken. When the ballroom opened there was something of a rush but we managed to secure catwalkside seats. This, it turned out, was a mixed blessing. We were excellently placed for maximal posing (especially if I used my camera flash - voguers quickly realised this was a good direction in which to strrrike a pose) but also seemed prime attractors for all manner of detritus from the stage: various grades of glitter, pages from a book (scattered by a most becoming Naked Civil Servant) and, memorably, a jacket kicked by Rikki Beadle-Blair almost directly into TSB's face. I don't think he meant to do this - he disrobed and I think he meant to dramatically dropkick his clothing over our heads into the crowd but, what with being a gay and therefore automatically rubbish at sport, went low - but it was shocking nonetheless. TSB's pillbox/fascinator went flying and had to be retrieved.

Beadle-Blair wasn't bad, actually. I've not really followed his career and tend to associate him with Metrosexuality, which was confusing to the point of unwatchability (although it included some sexy men, especially the motorcycle courier...). He was a good Master of Ceremonies for Liverpool Is Burning, mouthy enough to cover all eventualities.



Amy was leading the panel of judges, and did her job well. Other than Amy, Simon, the Readers Wifes and a few of the performers, I didn't recognise any Duckie regulars - an unusual situation. Amy was as glammed up as ever.



I tried to get a decent photo of the Readers Wifes but 'twas hard to get both looking in the same direction, engrossed as they were with the sound decks.



Vogueing. Other than the Madonna single and what little I'd gleaned about its subject, I knew nothing at all. I mean, I got the gist about it being a dance/performance craze among (mainly poor) black kids in the '80s, co-opted by Lady M. I hadn't realised it had endured, apparently developing and metamorphosing into different forms. I liked the idea of different Houses (very Harry Potter) competing in a number of sub-categories.

What I hadn't bargained for was the sheer bloody fabulousness of it all. Me being the one in charge of the camera, I wanted to photograph all of it. I had several camera crises in the course of the evening, the biggest being when I managed to fill a 1GB chip only around one quarter into the show. 317 high-res photos, me getting a tad snap-happy. I had to retire to the loos and delete a whole load to make space. We were perched down near the front of the wide bit of the catwalk and I soon realised that, in contrast to Duckie where using the flash can distract the performers, our beautiful voguers actively gravitated toward camera flashes, spinning on their heels and giving good face. I felt like a fashionista in the front row of a Paris collection, particularly with bearded Anna Wintour at my side.

TSB was very ladylike, sitting primly with legs together and clapping politely (whereas I, fingers festooned with cheap jewellery, found that, by the end of the night, I'd applauded so vigorously that I'd actually smashed the low-grade metal Gothrings out of shape and had some difficulty pulling them off the knuckles).



I was interested in how weirdly protective I felt of TSB en femme: I bought the drinks all evening and had to fight the impulse to hold doors open for him. Introjected chauvinism.

The show itself was opened by a live act and a performance from the House of Suarez. Even I realised the titular Darren Suarez's choreography was top-notch.





The categories themselves... First was WAGs: a cavalcade of shopping bags, mobile 'phones, tiny dogs and general blinginess. Enjoyable but, after a while, a little samey.



This category was won by the wonderfully exuberant (too much so for a decent pic) Gateau Chocolat.

Next was Retrosexual, any outfit from any period in history. This was a gorgeous section, featuring Wildean and Crispean dandies...



... and what was, for me, the most impressive procession of the evening (and not just because it featured beardy czars in uniform) from the House of Romanov, lead by Rasputin (looking not unlike Alan Moore)...





... with a massively crinolined Catherine the Great bringing up the rear, skirts sweeping the entire width of the catwalk:



The Retrosexual prize went to the hugely popular Miss High Leg Kick, whose fringe-peeping Diana (complete with camera-flashing paparazzi on tricycles) went down a storm. Gays and the People's Princess, eh? There was a collective rush to the stage, a reaching out to touch Diana's hand, as if she were the real thing. A deserved win.



Duckie performers were pretty well represented, really. Kicking off the Choreography round was a betailed, fandancing (and slightly Martin Degvillesque) Wee Lee.



Johnny Woo's House of Egypt built an impressive pyramid of sphinxes. Sturdy arm muscles on the bottom tier, there:



Femme Realness seems an odd concept to me, given the glorious unreality of the whole shebang generally, but apparently this is an authentic harking-back to the voguing contests of the '80s. To our delight (and despite stiff competition from local girl Beyonce), the prize went to another Duckie face, the lovely, statuesque Maur:



Beadle-Blair worshipped her. And rightfully so.



An honourable mention must go to the effervescent Miss High Leg Kick again, flashing glimpses of the scarily tumescent kapok cock beneath her frock.



I love Miss High Leg Kick. Everything she does has a twist, one in which she subverts expectations/stereotypes. She's effortlessly elegant but absolutely ready to put herself in performance situations which are anything but. After the show itself, she wandered around in little but a wig, heels, a comedy merkin and some alarmingly profuse sproutings of synthetic armpit hair.

The "Scally's Mum" category made me slightly uncomfortable. It's not that I've never laughed at Duckie cabaret acts which poke fun at Teh Working Classes but somehow, when act after act relies on the inherent funniness of badly-dressed "slags", smoking, drinking and smacking their kids up, it all starts to wear a little thin. Which is not to say I didn't enjoy the scrunchietastic winner, making us all duck for cover by whirling her child-on-a-leash in a wide circle over the heads of the audience.



The sexiest member of the judging panel, a Brandoesque Mr Roy, complained that the Fantasia category wasn't fantastic enough, and I'd have to agree. I was hoping for marvellous transhuman creatures aplenty and, in fact, it wasn't much different from Retrosexual. A few high points, though:







After Fantasia, a break then Orphans, a category for those individuals or groups unaffiliated with a particular House. Mr Roy gave a masterful demonstration of catwalking both masculine and feminine...





The Orphans were entertaining enough in a sort of Kids From Fame way. Highlights included a rather tasty piece of acrobatic manflesh close-up...







A suitably jazzhands finale (which was consistent with my general impression that, at least in Liverpool itself, many of those at the forefront of vogueing seem to be young and straight) and it all finally rolled to a stop. We'd been wondering all evening what would happen for the hour or so afterwards: would it switch abruptly to Duckie-at-the-Adelphi? Nope. It wasn't the Readers Wifes who took over but a chap from Horse Meat Disco, who continued in the same vein of (what I assumed to be) more-or-less authentic '70s/'80s New York disco. On the one hand, I felt a little disappointed that it wasn't the Duckie blend I know and love; on the other, the Readers Wifes' usual fare might've jarred after an evening in which the soundtrack was very much secondary to the visuals. That said, it did make me hanker for Duckie Classic choonz to dance (as opposed to vogue) to.

Here's a video of some of the performers preparing



and an excellently shot photo-montage here.

A not-too-horribly-drunken hotel room photo session later and we tumbled into bed. Got up in time to wander through a rainy Armistice Sunday Liverpool. Felt vaguely embarrassed not to be wearing a poppy.



The previous night's images still hanging in my head, there were moments when I'd clock a handsome man in an elaborate uniform and think for a split-second "ooh, he was in the Csar's parade!" before realising he was a bona fide member of today's armed forces...

A fabulous weekend. And, on the way back, no-one came and charged us extra for sitting in First. Hah!

GOODNIGHT AMERICA - WE LOOOVE YOU

He did it!



In the event, I sat up until around 4am despite having to get up for a full day's work today; watching that blotchy map go blue was just too exhilarating. I went to sleep after Ohio and, I think, just before New Mexico. The BBC's coverage had been amusingly partisan (they weren't trying too hard to conceal their obvious delight) and Simon Schama was gently baiting John Bolton.

The booing Republicans during McCain's speech were truly pathetic.

I'm finding myself slightly obsessed by Michelle Obama's outfits, and was tickled that she seemed to have dressed as a black widow spider. Wonder what kind of puppy they're going to go for?

It's a relief to be able to like America again. I'd quite got out of the habit.

All gone to look for America

Good luck, 'Merkins, we're all counting on you.

Let us be lovers again!

Watching roaches

Having unsuccessfully attempted an early night, I've just woken from... not quite a nightmare but a disturbing dream of some sort involving cockroaches. Brrr.

This is because my Monday was spent at a work-related doodah which involved travelling to a luxuuurious (that would be sarcasm) three-star hotel in West London for a series of training sessions. Maybe fifteen minutes into the first one, one of my colleagues put her hand up and the speaker paused, anticipating a question.

"There's a cockroach on my table and it's really distracting."

Everyone looked. There, clambering obscenely over the starched white tablecloth was an ugly great fucker of a 'roach maybe two inches long. She'd trapped it beneath an upended water glass and its antennae twitched as it attempted to scale the sheer wall of its prison. The speaker, to give him his due, paused, slid a bit of promotional bumph under the glass and carried the whole thing out to reception. Wish I'd been a (ho bloody ho) fly on the wall there.

I'm not sure why cockroaches creep me out the way they do but they're second only to wasps in my Most Hateful Insects Of All Time chart. Even the cute one in WALL·E caused me a slight shudder.

Crushed by the wheels

Here we are again, the by-now-traditional post-Duckie blog entry! TSB was remarking the other day on how easily we seem to have slipped into the habit of going along there every Saturday night. It's true: we always thought of it as Our Local but it's also become the backbone of our weekend socialising. Which is quite nice, really. I enjoy the familiarity of being a Duckie regular, our habitual place at the activity island (it would feel slightly strange now if we had to stand in another part of the club), the mix of old faces and new... There's a sort of shared sensibility there.

As I edge toward 40, I find I'm developing all sorts of comfortable routines. Saturdays, for example: usually, we'll have been out after work, come back and watched the telly with a bottle of wine (this week, the harrowing/moving finale of Dead Set), so the day begins gently for me. In contrast to TSB , who heads gymwards, I either luxuriate in bed, get up and head out to the Post Office if I've got parcels to collect (this week, my spangly shirt arrived for Liverpool Is Burning - hooray!) or, if in a self-indulgent mood, trek to New Covent Garden Flower Market. Even if I'm not planning on buying plants or flowers, just looking around the place is exhilarating. If one gets exhilarated by that sort of thing, which I do.

Next, I'll meet TSB in town for lunch. Again, we've drifted into a routine of Saturday lunchtime in Balans - but only if there's a table in the front section, as near the window as possible. More than half the attraction of Balans is watching the world go by. Yesterday, Novice Theory wandered past, looking attractively rainswept. Balans bills tend to mount up but watching The Restaurant (poor Owlboy and Muscleboy wuz robbed, robbed I tell you!) has been instructive in this regard. We now know the real money-spinners are cocktails, side-dishes, bread and desserts, so we tend to avoid those (apart from dessert; I regularly succumb to their sticky toffee pudding). Not completely in the spirit of le craquement de crédit but there y'go.

Sometimes haircuts or a geekular visit to Gosh! Comics then home to cocoon, notching up at least a couple of hours' sleep prior to Duckie.

So... that's the standard Saturday chez QueerRoyale and TheSpectacledBear. This week, we were half-thinking of heading out to the ICA's Hallowe'en party. TSB had been away in Scotland, though, and had only just returned, so a night in seemed nicer. Had my costume all planned too! Here's me as Rorschach from Watchmen:



Blurriness intentional (*koff*). Let's call it "arty".

Wonderful having TSB back: even a short period of separation is enough to remind me how much I love, want and need him (yes yes, sickbags under your chairs). An afternoon snooze and we were up and ready for the "Boxing Day of Hallowe'en" (copyright, Kim Phaggs) Duckie. Was vaguely thinking of attempting a cravat this week, having previously envied Father Cloth's natty neckwear but, as I was wearing a black shirt, it was difficult to contrive anything that wasn't unpleasantly reminiscent of Russell Brand. Topical, but not a good look for me. In the end I went without but did take along the Good Camera this time, in part because I want to take it along to Liverpool Is Burning next week and reckoned I needed practice handling it on a dancefloor. It was less problematic than expected, really, not much more hassle than dancing with a drink in one's hand. I dropped the lens cap on the floor a couple of times but managed to drop my glasses once, too; I was Mr Butterfingers generally. But actually dancing with it was okay: slung across my shoulder, I could curl one hand protectively around it; it jutted from my right hip like a stubby, anatomically misplaced erection but didn't seem to get in anyone's way. Mmm... Freudian...

Amy was red, white and blue and a large star-spangled banner was draped above the activity island, where a ballot box was available for one to vote in a Duckie special election for US president. Unsurprisingly, there was an Obamatastic 54-vote majority but five people would've voted for McCain. Amy diplomatically commented that "we will hunt you down and kill you". You betcha!



Also wandering around the floor was a large cardboard box on legs, with a handle:



This contained Roy Kerr, one of the evening's acts. When his door was opened, he'd act the part of a concerned neighbour, apologising for taking up one's time and engaging one in a doorstep conversation. When I obligingly grasped his knob, he talked about wanting to organise a neighbourhood protest against a family of "dwarfs" who'd moved in. Could he count on my support? Don't want no short people round here. NIMBY. Enjoyable nonsense.

First stage act was Bourgeois & Maurice, who I'd heard about but never seen. They sang two songs, about self-harm (pushing pins into one's skin) and voting for Bourgeois & Maurice (chorus something about getting on a train, a bus, a 'plane and fucking off because "YOU DON'T MATTER AT ALL!". Or thereabouts). I liked them a lot but felt they suffered from having the first slot, when the crowd's not quite at the optimal level of boozy participation. They were the best act of the night, and I'd have reversed the running order, putting them on last.

Niiice blue leather suit...



... and a pleasing strip to red sequins:



Here they are on YouTube:



The second act, Villain, was a sort of Europunk affair. At least, I think they were; they'd just been performing in Moscow and lived in South London (Peckham and Camberwell) but one of them was Danish. Or something. Their music was catchy enough (including a rather good deconstruction of Madonna's Like A Virgin) but I must admit I was more tickled by their visual presentation. Great make-up:



The last act, Ambrose Martos, was pants. Literally. He came on in a white bathrobe and stripped off maybe a dozen pairs of underpants, periodically flashing to reveal... his cock. Oookay. As Amy said, "potential boyfriend material for someone here".



The memorable element of this particular Duckie, for me, wasn't the cabaret or the music or the interactive stuff, but something that happened on the dancefloor. Just before Amy went onstage, a man in a stripey top came through the crowd asking us to move back. We did, and a man and woman in wheelchairs came through, the crowd (mercifully not a sardine-tin Duckie) pressed back to let them park themselves in front of the activity island to watch the cabaret.

Having shuffled back to allow them to pass, then found myself displaced, my first response was one of irritation. That's our place! They're taking up all that space! I recalled a time when someone had done something similar then, at a certain point in the evening, got up from their wheelchair and danced, absolutely incensing me. These guys didn't pull an Andy Pipkin, seemed to be enjoying the evening and I quickly began feeling ashamed of my initial reaction to their presence in the club. I'm told the only London gay club with full disabled access is XXL. Everywhere else has parts which are difficult or impossible for the non able-bodied. Duckie is frequently packed to capacity (and beyond) and can be tricky to traverse at the best of times. It's not at all well suited to a wheelchair. But should this mean wheelchair users feel obliged to stay away? Obviously not. And the fact that the club, like the vast majority, isn't designed to accommodate their wheelchairs is hardly the fault of the occupants themselves.

Thinking about it further, I wonder whether my initial annoyance was also partly because the people in the chairs were male and female, and I made the assumption that we were being shunted out of our stagefront position by heterosexuals. A lot of assuming going on there and even if I'm correct, I'm not sure to what extent sexuality is of relevance in this situation. If they were straight, would my piqued entitlement be any more valid? I really don't know.

In your head, they are fighting

Yesterday, I reaffirmed my dislike of Wagamama, allowing myself to be dragged to the Waterloo branch for lunch with TSB. We passed a perfectly good Canteen on the way there, and my stomach growled at the aroma of pies (mmm, piiies...) but 'twas not to be. A lank-haired Wagawaiter brimming with positivity seated us across from one another on one of their long benches, sandwiched between an older and younger woman pairing (mother and daughter?) and what looked like a standard-issue London gay male couple having an argument.

Usually with Wagamama, it's the food itself that irks me. Sure, it's healthy, but health-smugness only goes so far in the face of identikit blandness: indistinguishably sloppy half-soups that taste like unseasoned meat and vegetables floating in warm water in which quarter of a stock cube has been dissolved. I always come away craving flavour and crunch.

This time, however, the food was the least annoying element. Being fair to TSB, it was half-term; I don't suppose it's usually that packed, the entrance so clogged with pushchairs and other child-rendering paraphernalia. The staff took a good twenty minutes, half an hour to even take our order and, in that time, I think we'd both become hugely uncomfortable with the ambient level of neighbouring mano e mano conflict poisoning the atmosphere.

As arguments go, it seemed a peculiarly one-sided one. I'd taken the two men for partners but, while they clearly were having A Talk About Us, there appeared to be a financial dynamic too, with one haranguing the other (in soft but persistently aggrieved tones) about "how much I pay you". Absolutely relentlessly, for at least twenty minutes, leaning across the table, broadcasting murmured pique and a repeated it's-for-your-own-good-that-I'm-doing-this refrain. Agh. TSB, who was in the collateral damage zone of the aggressor's line-of-admonishment, looked sicker and sicker. The haranguee spoke maybe twice then stopped trying to defend himself and just sat, eyes downcast, accepting it all.

Scrupulously avoiding any sort of acknowledgment that all this emotional scab-picking was happening only inches away, I inclined slightly towards the couple on our other side, and kept accidentally making eye contact with the older woman. When I said something to TSB, she'd start slightly; I think she wondered, on at least two occasions, whether I was addressing her. I felt trapped, elbow reined in, able to look only straight ahead at TSB until the slop arrived.

It was too much humanity, too close.

A bit like the premise of Dead Set, then, Charlie Brooker's Big Brother zombie meltdown (hey, there's that apocalyptic theme again). It's running all this week and the first episode, set during a BB eviction night was absolute must-see television: slick, well-shot, much more straight-out horror in the mix than Sean Of The Dead and much scarier zombies (I blame Danny Boyle for teaching zombies to run - and yesss, I know those weren't technically zombies). Plenty of humour, though, both in the uncannily well-observed lines ("do toes have bones in them?" clearly referencing the likes of "East Angular?" and "I love blinking, I do") and the absurd juxtaposing of familiar and horrific: carnage erupts to Mika's Grace Kelly.

(Incidentally, the moment at the end of that song where Mika goes, "ker-ching!" still sets my teeth on edge more than any amount of fire extinguisher skull-bludgeoning. I usually rush to change CD/ipod track to avoid it.)

Jaime Winstone excellent (her character much less flaky than in Donkey Punch) and Andy Nyman's beary producer (the most identifiable mouthpiece for Brooker's trademark rants) both engaging and really quite fanciable, but it was Zombie Davina that stole the show. Zombie Davina!



I actually thought she acted being a zombie better than she acted herself. The bit where she's slumped against the wall, throat torn out, is good too; they'd made her zombification a literal Watercooler Moment.

I'm looking forward to seeing the real ex-BB Housemates as zombies, too. Brian Belo, with his weird blue contact lenses, is over halfway there already.

I think of you and let it go

As an update to my recent posts about Richard DeDomenici at last Saturday's Duckie, the man himself has uploaded videos of the performance I described.

Sway along to his Greenham Common nostalgerie!



Squeak along to his balloon dissemination and helium-fuelled singsong!